


tears of joy

by utrinque_paratus



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: And I coped with it, F/F, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Found Family, Gen, Hurt & Comfort, It is the canon anniversary of Ettersberg everyone, Post-Book: Lies Sleeping, Practically Cameos of the whole Cast, Spoilers for Lies Sleeping, Team Folly, today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17472512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utrinque_paratus/pseuds/utrinque_paratus
Summary: “I know what day it is, boss,” I said, and at once, Nightingale averted my eyes and I saw his lips turn white – as if he was desperately trying to hold back a scream from a sudden flare of pain. “But I don’t think that’s the way to deal with it.”





	tears of joy

_Sometimes things don't go, after all,_

_from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel_

_faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,_

_sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well._

 

_A people sometimes will step back from war;_

_elect an honest man, decide they care_

_enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor._

_Some men become what they were born for._

 

_Sometimes our best efforts do not go_

_amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to._

_The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow_

_that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you._

 

**Sometimes, by Sheenagh Pugh**

* * *

 

 

I knew something was off about the day when I dragged myself out of bed in the morning and turned on the radio before showering. The weather forecast mumbled something about a typical grey and cold January Tuesday, and then the 8 am news announced the headlines (just hearing the name ‘Boris Johnson’ made me want to aggressively throw shampoo at the speakers, but Bev would have me for that, so I restrained myself). I stopped massaging an itchy spot on my back for one moment when the date was announced, though – the 19th January 2016 – but before I could fully realise what exactly my braincells wanted to inform me about, Bev entered, grumbled something about feeling like a bloated balloon, and how she was never going to go through this again, like _ever_ , and then told me to make place so she could join me.

Even after having soaped Beverley’s baby bump for what felt like countless times already, always going in small and soft circles, feeling the little one’s kicks had never stopped sending a flutter of pure astonishment through my body. And just like the very first time, I could not stop a smile from spreading through my whole face, and after placing a gentle kiss on the curve of Bev’s stomach, I stood, and kissed Bev’s lips, and met her beautiful brown gaze, sparkling with warmth and love.

In those moments, I knew I was the luckiest bastard in the world, and nothing would ever persuade me into thinking otherwise.

 

 

Since Bev was at the beginning of her third trimester by now, it was getting more exhausting for her to move around – especially when she wanted to carry additional bags - so I tried to accompany her when she felt like going out or doing some shopping at any time I could.  For that Tuesday, I’ve even taken myself a holiday; the first one ever since my suspension had been lifted at the start of December. There were no big magical crimes in the making, Lesley hadn’t been spotted since the Incident, and even our other colleagues of former Operation Jennifer hadn’t been bothered with new corpses for the whole of the last week. Guleed had even called me during breakfast, complaining about “being bored out of her mind” and if I couldn’t just come over and blow something up for the sake of it. Of course, I’d dutifully declined.

After gearing up with two thermos and our warmest winter coats, we got into my Ford Focus to drive into the city and spontaneously decided to make a drop by the Folly, because I’d forgotten to bring some new Greek literature with me the day before. Also, Bev had high hopes I may be able to snatch some wedges of Molly’s newest experiment – a German “Russian-Style” Cheesecake.  

But before I got my hands on either of those things, I was stopped in the atrium by both Molly and Foxglove. The latter had an air of unnerved distress around her, and Molly looked like she was in the process of calming her down when I arrived. Molly whirled around and before I could say anything, she brought up her arm and pointed in, what I had found out later, was the direction of the gym.  

Somehow, I immediately knew it had something to do with Nightingale, because while Molly was obviously exasperated at – whatever it was – her face held a kind of concern that she only reserved for him alone.

And by the look of it, it was something urgent.

Suddenly, Greek was the very last thing on my mind.

“What is it? Has something happened?”

Molly half shook her head while re-indicating the direction of her pointed finger by inclining her chin, so I followed the path she had demonstrated and quickly picked up some pace when I heard a series of something best described as bumps which were growing louder the further I walked down the hallway.  

I halted a moment before the closed door of the gym, feeling for a trace of a _forma_ or _signare_ – no need to be unprepared if there was a chance a spell would wack me off my feet the moment I entered - but there was none. So, I simply knocked and opened it, only to stop dead in my tracks.

Even with his back turned to me, I could clearly see Nightingale hitting the punchbag with an uncontrolled ferocity which was so unlike him that I was taken aback. He wore a washed-out undershirt, sticking to his lean body, and with every move, droplets of sweat were thrown into the air by wisps of uncombed brown hair.  

He hadn’t heard me entering, because he showed no sign of breaking off and instead started a sequence of uppercuts which rapidly grew in intensity and were accompanied by rough, strained gasps for air.

They sounded desperate - in a way that made it hard to listen.

“Sir, are you all right?” I forced myself to ask, bloody well knowing that there was very certainly something _not_ all right, but I’ve learnt to be a bit more careful about those things these days.

He evidently still hadn’t clocked me, because the punches got even harder, and then I noticed the smears of blood left on the leather by his unbandaged knuckles.

“Boss, what the hell is going on?” I repeated, this time a lot louder and made a handful of steps into his direction, fully intent on stopping him, because this was – disturbing, to be frank. But now, he reacted by freezing in the middle of his movement.

For a split second, there was an absolute absence of sound. Then, Nightingale exhaled and slowly turned around.

His shoulders were incredibly tense - like a cornered animal, ready to jump and run at the tiniest notice, and that was when I genuinely started worrying. I took him in; his face was drawn in a way which implied a night without sleep and adorned with stubbles.  

And in this moment, it hit me like a kick into the guts.

The 19th of January – the anniversary of Ettersberg.

Of course. How could I have forgotten?

“Peter,” Nightingale began, voice rough and carrying a hint of surprise. “I did not expect you. I thought you’ve wanted to spend the day with Beverley?”

I was standing close enough to taste a hint of alcohol on his words. Fuck. That meant it was pretty bad.

“I’ve forgotten the Greek textbook you’ve given me yesterday. Wanted to get it before we were going to drive into the city,” I answered, simultaneously considering my two options: Immediate follow-up or the soft approach.

Feigning ignorance about the situation was out of the question after what I’d just seen, and I was sure Nightingale knew that too. That meant I chose option one - preferably before he could come up with some nonsense to avoid a confrontation.

"I know what day it is, boss,” I said, and at once, Nightingale averted my eyes and I saw his lips turn white – as if he was desperately trying to hold back a scream from a sudden flare of pain. “But I don’t think that’s the way to deal with it.”

There was a slight hesitation before he answered.

“I am quite alright, Peter,” he declared, and that sentence went straight to the collection of _‘the biggest bullshit Thomas Nightingale has ever said to me’_ \- right next to the crown jewel of _‘I am the last wizard in Britain’_.

“No, you are not,” I interrupted him, and before he could reply, continued with, “and don’t even get started with anything else of that stiff upper-lip show.”

Nightingale went silent at that, and the fact that he didn’t give me any contra or even one of his sharp looks for me hitting back at him like this was a statement all in itself.  

I caught a slight shiver go through his body.

“Look, what about you taking a shower, and me going back to Bev and asking her if it’s alright if we stay for a bit - or I could stay and she can go off doing whatever she likes to do - or maybe you could even come with us,” I offered, hoping that Bev wouldn’t be disappointed, but there was no way in hell I was going to leave him like this.

Nightingale appeared to be visibly distressed at the whole idea and started with something that sounded like “You should go and enjoy your day, I don’t want you to bother-” but again, I was faster and definitely more confident about what I was actually saying.

“Also, Foxglove is very upset about your whole behaviour and I think Molly isn’t particularly happy either. You should probably go back up and reassure them a bit.”

I waited a moment, and Nightingale still looked away, his eyes dull and haunted.

Far too much like that time we stood before the Wall of the Honoured Dead in Casterbrook together, over three years ago.

Therefore, I did what I wanted to do then but couldn’t because we’ve barely known each other in 2012, and Lesley hadn’t betrayed me yet, and we still had to hunt down a magical psychopath together. I lifted an arm to squeeze his shoulder; just like he’d so often done to comfort me.

One moment I thought he might flinch away, but instead, his walls crumbled, and I sensed him actually leaning into my touch – as if to draw a little bit of strength, as if he was realising that I was positively real and standing right there, and not simply his imagination playing with him.

It must have been Nightingales’ greatest wish, I thought, all these decades, on this day – one of the friends he lost, _just one of them_ , suddenly turning up behind his back and tapping on his shoulder.

The moment lasted a heartbeat, or maybe two, before he broke away, and I quickly withdrew my hand because we’ve evidently reached the point where more meaningful physical contact was going to be too compromising on Nightingales’ rock-hard foundation of Britishness.  

“You’re – probably right,” he murmured, suddenly looking ashamed – as if I’d caught him doing something undecent or forbidden. Categories which ‘display of real emotions in front of apprentice’ probably fell under via his Victorian definition of manhood.  

Trying to give him a reassuring nod, I stepped to the side so he could leave the room before the situation could descend into a pitch-black pit of awkwardness. Nightingale promptly took that cue and made a literal beeline for the door, still decidedly avoiding eye contact.

Properly terrified by the way Nightingale had resorted to my handling and goodwill without even _trying_ to put up a real fight just for the sake of his usual stubbornness, I went back to Bev, trying to figure out how to handle this the best and most sensible way. While crossing through the atrium, I noticed that both Foxglove and Molly had vanished to – somewhere.

Bev still sat in the car which I’d parked in front of the garage and scrolled through some social news feed on her smartphone. Instead of looking at me when I opened up the door to a slight gap - so I could talk to her but not subject her to a shockwave of cold air - she began what I instantly recognised as one of her deliberately exaggerated laments, this time about a party some of her fellow students were apparently going to throw the next weekend and how she obviously wasn’t going to be able to attend. Not just because it was going to be super crowded and unsafe for her and because there were barely any suitable sitting accommodations at the chosen location, _but_ also because she still had to finish writing up that last method in her thesis which had been bothering her for two weeks by now.

I had to smile, and listened to her ranting for at least a minute, before I gently disrupted her waterfall of words.

“Bev, I’ve just run across Nightingale, and- “

It must have been the sound of my voice, because the moment I spoke, her head snapped up and I had her full attention. I paused, and Bev slightly narrowed her eyes, inquiring.

“What about him?”

So, I told her about the date, and that Ettersberg had happened today 71 years ago. I didn’t have to explain anything else – she knew what was associated with the location, as did most of the demi-monde. (When I’ve first mentioned the name to her, she had simply given me a little wave with her hand and said that Tyburn probably knew more about that whole affair than me. I hadn’t disagreed.)

“Oh, that’s shit,” Bev answered immediately after I’d finished, and her voice took on a concerned undertone that was apparent in a way I honestly hadn’t expected. “How’s he coping?”

“He hasn’t bothered to shave, definitely had something hard to drink before 10 am, and considering he’d also preferred boxing his fists bloody over hitting something with fireballs –,” I stopped and stumbled a step backwards because Bev had simply pushed the door of the car wide open and began to manoeuvre herself out of it.

“Looks like it’s an emergency, then,” she stated matter-of-factly, stood up and shut the door.

I stared at her, and Bev sighed before she gave me the sort of smile that communicated _‘I really love you, but sometimes, you are a hopeless idiot’_.

“Babes, I like the Nightingale well enough to agree to him becoming the godfather of our child. What did you think? That I’d rather go shopping than keeping him company on what probably amounts to his annual day of personal Armageddon?”

I hadn’t, actually – but I still felt a weight lift from my heart, because we were going to do something about it, together, and she didn’t seem disgruntled in the slightest about our impromptu change of plans for the day.  

Once more, I was convinced that Beverley Brook was the best thing that could have happened to me.

After giving her the keys to the tech cave, she told me to also get Molly and Foxglove.

“We’ll watch movies together, or rugby if it’s on, and can order something to eat,” Bev proposed. I had already turned around to re-enter the Folly through the back entrance, when she added, shouting at me from halfway up the spiral staircase, “and maybe also bring some of Molly’s latest cookies. You know. The ones with the extra salted caramel. _Or_ the cheesecake.”

I didn’t need to search long for the two, or Nightingale, for that matter - because I’ve found that Molly had dragged Nightingale into the kitchen and was currently underway to passive-aggressively dab disinfectant on his lacerated knuckles. Probably her way of giving him a piece of her mind about his coping strategies.

He had taken a shower and changed into one of his older jumpers: cashmere coloured in a faded olive tone, wearing a white polo-shirt beneath it, and jeans. Which was as close as Nightingale would ever get to baggy leggings and that ancient team sweater you normally slept in and which your mother had wanted to throw away a long time ago. Indeed, I noticed that he also still hadn’t shaved or combed through his now-washed hair - which had seized the moment of no-nineteen-twenties-side-parting to start forming some very un-Nightingaley curls.

Foxglove, thankfully looking a little less agitated than before, had sat down next to Nightingale and scratched Toby between his ears, who sat on the tabletop in unnatural silence and was gingerly pushing his snout against Nightingales arm; obviously, even he had observed that something about his master was out of the ordinary.

Foxgloves eyes brightened up when I entered, and she shot me a little smile, while Molly gave Nightingales’ left hand a last forceful jab with an alcohol-soaked wipe. He distinctly winced, and I couldn’t quite determine if it was because of the pain or Molly’s admonishing stare.

When he turned to me, he already looked a lot more like the Nightingale I’m used to – all closed up and put together. Not that this was a particularly good sign, especially when it’s Nightingale, who was probably even worse than my level of ‘Grit your teeth and get to it’.

“Bev is okay with staying and is already making herself comfortable in the tech-cave. Guess it’s movie day for us all,” I said, and I hadn’t even finished my sentence before Foxglove stood up, excitement clear on her face and evidently expecting the continuation of a recent marathon of Disney classics. Toby yapped in palpable agreement and jumped down from the table.

“Peter, I assure you that I-” Nightingale began, in a valiant attempt probably born out of an invincible spark of pertinacity he had gathered while showering, but Molly didn’t even give him a chance of finishing the sentence. She interrupted him with a hiss, and then simply grabbed him under his armpit and pulled him up on his legs as if he weighed nothing more than feather.

There was a look exchanged between the two, just for a second. It was raw and open, and told tales of an endless number of days filled with hurt and worry and care and trust.

It made me ask myself how often Molly already had to deal with this particular sort of Nightingale, only that there had been no Toby, Foxglove, or Bev and me to help along.

It did – something. I was not completely sure what, but Nightingales shoulders lost some of their rigidity, and to my utter bafflement, he let himself be walked the whole way to the Tech Cave with Molly having an arm hooked under his right elbow, and Toby (barking happily), me (dutifully armed with some cake and cookies) and Foxglove (who had grabbed a sketchpad and some pencils on the go) following in some funny sort of procession.

Bev had already switched on the TV and some lights and had herself settled on the couch with her feet up on a footrest I had recently bought precisely for the occasion should she, for whatever reason, have to stay at the Tech Cave with me for an evening or the other. But when we entered, she stood up, and came towards us with a bright smile.

“Hello everyone,” she said, and, without halt, tucked her arm under Nightingales left one, continued with a firm “I’ll take Thomas from here, thank you Molly,” and proceeded to steer him towards the couch to have him sit down right between me and her. Nightingale had obviously capitulated before the women, so he wisely didn’t protest. When I plonked down beside him, he simply shot me a weak look that spoke of tiredness and a big, fat translation homework in the very near future.

Bev helped herself to a piece of cake and while at it, decidedly pressed another one into Nightingales hands. Foxglove and Molly made themselves comfortable next to each other on the chaiselongue, Toby got a bone to chew on, Foxglove had taken up the remote control and turned on a stream of _‘Lilo & Stitch’_, and this, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in-between, is how I spent over twelve hours reliving my childhood, courtesy of various animated anthropomorphic animals who were singing far too often.

Only that it didn’t stay at that.

We were halfway through _‘The Lion King’_ when Abigail turned up, who I assumed Bev had called while I’ve been away fetching the others. She sat down before us with her head resting against Nightingales knees and cheerfully chatted with him about intricate character details in-between movie and loo-breaks, despite the fact that he at first barely reacted to her musings. Nightingale seemed very impressed with her critical commentary throughout the whole of _‘Pocahontas’_ , though, and amazingly, I felt him slowly unwind – relaxing more and more into the couch, and his breathing softly evening out.

Then, when it was already starting to turn dark outside, Guleed knocked on the door.

I stood up to open and following her inside were no-one else than DI Miriam Stephanopoulos plus her wife, Pamela. If Abigail hadn’t used Nightingales shins as her personal backrest anymore, I bet he would have jumped up at once and tried to hide before they saw him the way he was dressed. No such luck, though, since Abigail only had a smug smile on her face and didn’t show even the slightest inclination to move.

“Abigail texted me that you were holding a movie night and had no food, so we decided to call it an early day,” Guleed said and held up two bags quickly filling the Tech Cave with the promising smell of Asian takeaway.

“Perfect!” grinned Bev, who had just remarked that she and the baby were getting hungry for some real food.

While Molly got up, probably to inspect if their culinary refreshments lived up to her standards, and Foxglove skipped through a list of movies we hadn’t seen yet (she queued _‘The Jungle Book’_ ), Stephanopoulos and Pamela came over to greet us.

“So, you are the Mr Nightingale Miriam has told me so much about,” Pamela announced after saying hello to Bev and me, and they shook hands.

“I seem to be,” Nightingale answered, his voice carrying a tinge of strange uncertainty which made him sound vulnerable, in a way. But despite the situation, his manners were in peak shape as always, and he added, “and you must be Miriams’ wife. It is an honour for me to finally make your acquaintance.”

Pamela drew up an eyebrow before turning to Stephanopoulos, smiling. “He isn’t half as posh as you are constantly telling me, Miriam.”

“That is only,” answered Stephanopoulos, looking down at Nightingale who was still helplessly perched between Bev, Abigail and me, “because our Thomas obviously isn’t up to his game today.” The words were spoken with a rare warmth and her eyes had a sympathetic shine to them, and I realised that she could probably read both the situation and Nightingale better than she let on.

We divided the takeaway between us; Guleed ended up next to Abigail sprawled on some blankets I had dug out from a drawer somewhere, and Stephanopoulos and Pamela fitted themselves on the chaiselongue alongside Molly and Foxglove, who had started to sketch something.

Around 9 pm, the Dres Abdul Haqq Walid and Jennifer Vaughan made me seriously consider getting a foldable sofa just for these sorts of unpredictable circumstances, and additionally proved that ultimately the Tech Cave could also feel crowded – you just needed to put enough people into it.

“And who has phoned you?” I asked Dr Walid when we went to fetch two extra chairs.

“Nobody,” he said. “You see, Thomas has never fared very well on this day, so I made a habit of paying him a visit on the particular evenings and would have come anyway.”

I hadn’t known that and tried to think where I’ve exactly been on the 19th of January these past years – and had to come to the conclusion that for one reason or the other, I’ve never spent it at the Folly.

“Does Dr Vaughan know, too?” I said.

“I don’t think that she knows, although she is definitely entertaining some due suspicion about our visit,” Dr Walid replied. “But I thought that bringing Jennifer along might lighten up the mood and she has been keen to make another visit to Molly and Foxglove; they go down so well together.”

We’ve arrived at the kitchen and he went ahead to hoist up a chair.

“Certainly, I had not expected that so many are already keeping him company, but alas I am of course very glad that you do.”

“When did he tell you? About Ettersberg?” I had to ask.

“Well,” Dr Walid started – only to sigh and fall silent for a moment before continuing. “I think that rather falls under patient confidentiality, and in any case, it wouldn't be a story for me to tell.”

I stopped and stared at him. He returned my gaze with a forced smile, and we walked back in silence until we reached the staircase.

“Just this, Peter,” he suddenly said, and this time his expression was genuine, “ _when_ Thomas told me, which was incidentally also the day we’ve first met, I saw a broken man. In the whole thirty years afterwards, even with his body growing younger, that feeling never left me – that there was something missing inside him which he could never regain.”

All at once, Dr Walid laughed – a short, soft and incredibly Scottish sound.

“Then he brought you along, and I realised that never before in my life I’d been so utterly mistaken in the diagnosis of a patient.”

 

 

At the point when the credits of _‘Aristocats’_ started to roll, Abigail had fallen asleep on Guleeds shoulder, which meant that Nightingale finally had the chance to properly stretch his legs and get to do some talking with our spontaneous guests. I leaned over to Bev, who had her eyes closed, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

“How are you?”

The corners of her mouth drew up and she turned her head to blink at me.

“Tired,” she murmured, “but otherwise good.” She placed a hand on her belly. “The little one’s keeping the hit-count down to a minimum today. Probably knows something’s up.”

I put an arm around her and gently massaged her left shoulder, and we sat there for moment, just enjoying each other’s warmth.

“Do you think we’ve managed to take his mind off things?” Bev said, slightly moving her head to the side to get a better look at Nightingale who was currently occupied with the combined force of Jennifer, Molly, and Stephanopoulos, while Pamela was absorbed in some heart-to-heart with Dr Walid.

“Considering he’s sung along to the lyrics of _‘Everybody wants to be a cat’_ , I think it was a full success,” Guleed piped up from before them. “Although I still don’t really think I understand what Abigail meant when she texted me that it was a ‘Team Emergency’ and of ‘vital importance’ that we’d come.”

I did not answer her, and neither did Beverley. I for my part was sure enough that Guleed got filled in on the details by Michael Cheung the very next day, though.

I turned back to face Bev.

“What do you think Foxglove is drawing?” I said and nodded into her direction. “She’s been at it for a while now.”

“Maybe we could take a look and ask her. Also, I _really_ need to move around for a bit,” she added, promptly groaned when I helped her up and mumbled something about pregnancy ruining her back and what suspiciously sounded like ‘need more cushions’.

That was when Stephanopoulos announced that it was almost midnight, and that we should probably all get a move on into our respective beds, and that she wasn’t going to have mercy on any of us tomorrow, even if we hadn’t slept enough.

It was just a small movement, but I caught it out of the corner of my eye. Nightingale had stopped talking to the others and had lifted his wrist to stare at his watch.

His hand had started to tremble – scarcely discernible if you didn’t know for what you had to look for, but I’ve known him long enough by now.  

I made Bev aware of it, and she didn’t wait a second before walking towards Nightingale, me in tow. He started to speak the moment we took up positions next to him – shielding him from the others, in a way.

“Most of it was over by now,” he whispered. There was a long pause, and I waited for Bev to say something because she was better at this, but then Nightingale continued. “The last glider was long gone, and the rest… the rest of us – who were still alive… we tried to escape through the woods.”

Outside, I could hear that a strong January wind had taken up to an eerie howling, and for one moment, I thought I could feel the biting cold on my face, mixed with a whiff of pine, the smell of woodsmoke and the scratch of canvas over my back.

Bev raised her hand, then, and lightly placed it on Nightingales wrist, over the clock, and took his hand – a smooth and small movement, but one that made Nightingale look up in utter astonishment.

“I am truly sorry, Thomas,” Bev told him, and the absolute sincerity and kindness in her voice made my heart ache.

Nightingale replied nothing, but I somehow sensed that it had helped, that the heavy blanket of grief had lifted just a little bit, and some part of me wished I had been the one to say these words to him.

Just then, I felt someone delicately tap a finger between my shoulderblades, and I shifted to let Foxglove into our circle. She had her sketchpad pressed closely to her chest and her eyes flicked back and forth between the three of us – as if to figure out if it was safe to breach, so to say. But then she apparently decided to do whatever she had planned to anyways and turned the sketchpad around to show us what she had been working on.

It was a drawing of … persons. A lot of them, standing together in a group, and I immediately recognised me and Bev, who held something in her arms which was coiled in blankets and I knew that it was there to represent our child. In the front, there was Foxglove herself, happily wrapped in Molly’s embrace; and Abigail who had a big grin on her face and a werelight floating over her head. There was Guleed together with Michael Cheung, dressed up in their Ninja uniforms, and Stephanopoulos and Pamela - and I realised that Seawoll was there too, with his usual intimidating stance and scowl. Then I clocked my parents, and Kumar; and Dr Jennifer Vaughan, her arms perkily stemmed into her sides, Dr Walid winging it behind her with a stethoscope dangling around his neck. Frank Caffrey and a handful of his mates had been lined up in the last row of what I now recognized were the front-door stairs of the Folly; and even Varvara Sidorovna Tamonina had found a place and had something hover above her hands that looked like an oversized snowflake. Harold Postmartin had been sat on a stool, with Toby the Dog in his lap.

There was … everyone. And in the middle of the group, upright and proud, impeccably dressed in one of his three-piece suits and the silver-topped cane held in his right hand, stood Thomas Nightingale.

I was at a loss for words and couldn’t produce a more intelligible response but to merely gawk, while Foxglove cautiously separated the sheet from the rest of the sketchpad and then proceeded to offer it to Nightingale himself.

“This is – Foxglove, this is magnificent,” Bev said, coming to mine and Nightingales’ rescue, because evidently, our brains had just short-circuited.

A few seconds passed before Nightingale took the sketch from Foxglove, and when he did, his fingertips barely made contact with the paper as if it was the most fragile thing he’d ever held in his hands.

“Foxglove,” he began, and broke off again because in this moment, Foxglove lifted her hand to her heart, just like she had done when she had shown me the drawings in that oubliette. But instead of leaving it there, she turned her palm around, drew a half circle into the air – as if to indicate the room around them, filled with their friends and colleagues - and then proceeded to press it onto Nightingales chest.

The whole gesture was enough to say what a thousand words couldn’t.

_‘You are not alone, you have us. We are your family.’_

Even years later, I could still very vividly remember the single tear that had slid down Nightingales face, Foxgloves short but complete dismay because she had thought she had done something wrong, and Nightingales voice cracking when he told her that she shouldn’t worry. From one moment to the other, he broke into one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen on him, and then he’d simply said:

“I just – I can’t remember the last time I’ve cried tears of joy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the absolute epitome of self-indulgent fluff and hurt with a lot of comfort, and while I've sold parts of my sanity to finish this on time, I regret nothing. I just live and breathe for the Trope of Found Family, and when I realized, at the beginning of the week, that the anniversary of Ettersberg was coming, I immediately knew what I had to do. 
> 
> The poem "Sometimes" by Sheenagh Pugh is one of the most powerful things I've come across in the last few months and it fills me with light and hope every time I read it, and found it incredibly fitting for both the overarching plot of Rivers of London, the journey of Peter and Nightingale, and for the feeling I tried to convey with this story.
> 
> As always please keep in mind that English is not my native language - if you find any big errors in grammar or spelling, feel free to point them out to me!
> 
> I hope this puts a smile on the face of everyone who reads it :)


End file.
